The loom occupied the front room, its wooden frame dark with oil and years. My aunt sat before it like a musician at an instrument only she could play.

Each thread had a name: the blue was for distance, the red for longing, the white for the parts of the story no one spoke aloud.

When the cloth was finished, she folded it and put it away. 'It is not for using,' she said. 'It is for remembering that someone once sat here.'